1

I’m a humble writer who recently published a pair of short stories in two relatively unknown literary journals. The first story was 3,587 characters, which includes punctuation marks. The second story was a bit longer, coming in at 4,623 characters, also including punctuation marks.

I’m getting ready to write a novel based on a few ideas that have been living inside my mind for the past twenty-odd years. The ideas aren’t the best neighbors; not only do they not get along with each other, but they often get into fights. I know they’re all vying to be the ‘first written’ out of my mind and onto paper. I try to persuade them that being the ‘first written’ isn’t as important as being ‘well written’. But they lack confidence in my writing ability. According to them, I’ve only got one novel in me. They’re afraid that if they don’t make it out first, they will end up dying in incubation. Thanks to their incessant arguing, I haven’t been able to write a single character in twenty years. Of course, this is merely an excuse. The real reason is my lack of confidence in ever getting my novel published.

One afternoon twenty years ago, I cautiously stepped through the gate of a famous publishing house. Following the mottled cement staircase up to the fifth floor, I gently knocked on the unlatched door of the editorial office for literature. A woman’s voice responded:

‘Come in.’

I pushed open the door and went in. Although there were a dozen desks in the room, there were only two people inside, a man and a woman. The male editor looked to be in his early twenties while the woman was around forty. The woman asked me:

‘Who are you looking for?’

I was at a loss as I stared at the tall pile of unopened packages of manuscripts stacked up on the desk. There was another batch of manuscripts stacked up in the corner of the room. The young male editor was sitting beside the desk closest to the door. Seeing that all the manuscripts on his desk were addressed to someone named Sun Qiang, I said:

‘I’m here to see Sun Qiang.’

The female editor pointed to the male editor and said: ‘He’s Sun Qiang.’

The editor named Sun Qiang looked at me in confusion. He couldn’t remember ever having seen me before. I flashed him a modest smile before taking out of my backpack copies of the two journals that had previously published my short stories. I opened them up to the page where my stories appeared and handed them to him, pointing out which one was my first published work and which was the second. He glanced at the magazines before asking:

‘What do you want?’

I said I had a few ideas for a novel that I wanted to bounce off him; if he was interested in any of them, I could go home and get right to work. I pulled up a chair and sat down, preparing to tell him all about my ideas when he interrupted me:

‘Hey, I’m not a doctor.’

I was a bit taken aback. Not understanding what he meant, I hesitated for a moment before going on to tell him about my first idea. I only got through the first two sentences when he interrupted me again:

‘Didn’t I just tell you, I’m not a doctor at some medical clinic!’

‘I know,’ I began to grow uneasy. ‘You’re a literary editor.’

That’s when someone with a woven plastic bag came in to collect the recyclables. He seemed to be close with the editors because he pointed to the pile of manuscripts in the corner and said:

‘Not too many today.’

With that, he squatted down to dump the manuscripts into the woven plastic bag. Meanwhile, Sun Qiang got up and walked out. He didn’t bother giving me a second look; it was as if I didn’t even exist. I sat there awkwardly for a moment before the female editor said:

‘Why don’t you head home? You can send us your manuscript when it’s done.’

I nodded. Glancing at the person in the corner who was still filling the garbage bag with unopened manuscripts, I got up and walked out of the office. Standing on the street, staring back at this famous publishing house, I knew what the fate of my ideas would be if I ever sent them here. They would be crammed into that woven plastic garbage bag, and sold to a recycling center to be made into new paper.

Later, I went to a not-so-famous publishing house where I met an editor in his fifties. While he stopped short of saying ‘I’m not a doctor’, he also had no interest in listening to my ideas. While his attitude was much friendlier than Sun Qiang’s, he still just briefly thumbed through the copies of those two relatively unknown literary journals I brought and told me frankly that it is extremely difficult for an unknown author to publish a novel. Seeing my dejected response, he offered a smile and asked:

‘Do you want to write to be famous, or do you have a real passion for literature?’

‘I have a true passion for literature,’ I responded without hesitation.

‘Then that’s going to be difficult,’ he said. ‘If you want, you can try the route of self-publishing. That involves paying us to issue an ISBN and then finding a printer. You could print around 500 copies to give to your relatives and friends.’

What he said perked my interest so I asked: ‘How much is an ISBN number? What would it cost to print 500 copies of a book?’

‘The ISBN will set you back 15,000 RMB; 500 copies will cost around 5,000 RMB to print. You’re looking at 20,000 to publish your book.’

‘Wow, so expensive!’ I cried. At the time my monthly salary was only 200 RMB.

‘When independent book publishers purchase ISBNs from us, we charge them 20,000. We only offer them 15,000 a title when they buy more than ten from us at a time.’ He paused for a moment: ‘I’m actually offering you our bulk rate.’

‘I don’t understand, why would independent publishers need to purchase ISBNs from you?’

‘Only legitimate state-owned publishers are permitted to issue ISBN numbers. Private enterprises technically aren’t allowed to run publishing houses, so they have to purchase ISBN numbers from state-owned publishers.’

‘And what if I don’t want the ISBN number and just publish my novel on my own by going directly to a printer?’

‘That would be considered an illegal publication.’

‘Is that dangerous?’

‘Well, they could arrest you and throw you in prison!’

I got up and left that not-so-famous publishing house, staggering dejectedly down the street and later staggering dejectedly through every moment of the ensuing years.

I once hoped that my son might take up literature and fulfill my unrealized dreams, but all he was interested in was video games. When he was in middle school my little brother gave him a PlayStation Portable (PSP). Every night he played video games under the covers in bed. Now that he is all grown up and has a job, he doesn’t have to hide anymore and can openly play video games on his phone whenever he wants. My niece, on the other hand, was obsessed with books. My weak literary genes skipped my son and somehow ended up with her. I have always treated my niece like my own daughter, meticulously tutoring her and helping her with her homework, from elementary school all the way through high school. By the time she reached college she no longer needed my help. She began to publish her essays in magazines, followed by a series of short stories. One after another, her stories appeared in print like a flurry of flowers blooming in spring – there was no stopping her.

When her first collection of short stories was published, it was brought out by that famous publishing house. Sun Qiang, the young editor who once told me ‘I’m not a doctor’, was now the head of the house and he personally moderated the discussion at her book launch. Sun Qiang referred to her as ‘Eileen Chang reincarnated’, while the media referred to her as a representative figure in the new wave of ‘attractive women writers’.

That was also when she got pregnant. Out of the blue, she was going to have a child.

She woke up one day in the afternoon and began to suspect that she might be pregnant. Ever since she began her career as a writer, she stopped getting up early and would sleep until noon. After waking up that day, she washed up, brushed her teeth, got dressed and put on her makeup, before telling her parents that it had been two months since her last period and she was going to go to the hospital to check if she was pregnant. With that, she went out the door without bothering to eat anything.

My brother and sister-in-law sat there staring at each other in shock. It took a moment for what she said to sink in. My brother even asked my sister-in-law: ‘What did she just say?’

After thinking about it for a second, my sister-in-law said: ‘She said she was going to check something at the hospital.’

‘Did she say she was going to check if she was pregnant?’ my brother asked.

My sister-in-law nodded. ‘I think that’s what she said . . .’

‘How is that even possible?’ my brother yelled. ‘She’s not even married! Hell, she doesn’t even have a boyfriend!’

‘She may not be married . . .’ my sister-in-law replied, ‘but maybe she does have a boyfriend?’

‘Did she ever mention anything about having a boyfriend to you?’

‘Never.’

‘Me neither.’

My brother called me and the first words out of his mouth were: ‘Do you know if Mianyang has a boyfriend?’

Mianyang, or ‘sheep’, is my niece’s pen name. Once she had gained some degree of celebrity on the literary scene, her parents seemed to have forgotten her real name; instead, they always referred to her as Mianyang.

‘Mianyang has a boyfriend?’ I asked through the phone. ‘What does he do for a living?’

‘We’re actually not sure if she has a boyfriend or not; do you know anything about her having a boyfriend?’ he asked.

‘If you don’t know, how do you expect me to know?’ I replied.

‘There are some things that Mianyang refuses to share with us but tells you.’

Those ‘things’ she shares with me are all related to literature. ‘I don’t know. She never mentioned anything about a boyfriend to me,’ I said.

‘If you don’t even know whether or not she has a boyfriend, how the hell did she end up pregnant?’ he said.

I could hear my sister-in-law: ‘She’s getting it checked out right now, we still don’t know if she is really pregnant.’

‘How is that possible?’ I asked.

My brother started to explain what was happening over the phone, with my sister-in-law repeatedly cutting in. Eventually, my brother grew irritated and barked at his wife: ‘Can you stop interrupting me!’

My sister-in-law instead snatched the phone from my brother and said: ‘She blurted out something about possibly being pregnant and ran off to the hospital!’

‘Maybe she’s in the middle of writing a novel and was just reciting some dialogue from her story without even realizing it?’ I suggested.

‘That’s a possibility,’ said my sister-in-law. ‘Actually, she has been acting a bit strange ever since she became a writer.’

‘Aren’t all writers a bit strange?’ my brother asked.

‘What can I say . . . ?’ I replied. ‘I suppose that sometimes they act normal, and sometimes they act strange.’

‘Then how come you’re always so normal?’ my sister-in-law asked.

‘That’s because my brother isn’t a real writer,’ I could hear my brother explaining to her.

‘Shh, lower your voice,’ my sister-in-law whispered to him.

‘No need to lower your voice,’ I said. ‘I can hear everything, and you’re right, I’m no writer!’

Mianyang came back from the hospital around 4 p.m.; she handed her parents the lab report and told them she was pregnant. Facing their flustered expressions, she casually instructed them that, from that day forward, she would be resting at home to ensure the health of her baby. She would be taking all of her meals in her room and, besides going to the bathroom, would not be leaving her bed until the baby was born. With that, she went into her bedroom, closed the door, and climbed into bed.

My brother and sister-in-law butted heads as they simultaneously looked down to read the result of the pregnancy test – it was indeed positive. My sister-in-law rushed into Mianyang’s bedroom screaming:

‘You’re not even married! How could you possibly be pregnant?’

‘What, you can’t get pregnant unless your married?’

Desperate for help, my sister-in-law turned to my brother, who also began yelling: ‘Since when did you even have a boyfriend? How come you never told us?’

‘You tell me, since when have I ever had a boyfriend?’ Mianyang retorted.

My brother and sister-in-law looked at each other in confusion; it was only after a long pause that my brother finally asked: ‘So you don’t have a boyfriend?’

‘No,’ replied Mianyang.

That sent my sister-in-law into another frantic attack: ‘How could you possibly get pregnant without a boyfriend?’

‘I have a lover,’ replied Mianyang.

My brother and sister-in-law stood there gaping, but Mianyang simply signaled for them to leave her room.

‘Close the door on the way out,’ she told them.

They stood there without moving, still wondering what exactly she meant by the word ‘lover’.

Mianyang began to grow impatient: ‘Hey, I’m trying to rest in order to prevent a miscarriage!’

That night they called me up and asked me to come by their apartment. Since Mianyang became a writer, my brother and sister-in-law had been going everywhere with an expression of pride plastered all over their faces. Now they had a distressed look on their faces, as if they were in need of a good scrub. They couldn’t make head nor tail of the strange words coming out of Mianyang’s mouth. They asked me what the difference was between a boyfriend and a lover.

I didn’t know either, but after thinking about it I had a hunch about what Mianyang meant. I told them that ‘boyfriend’ likely referred to someone unmarried whereas ‘lover’ probably referred to someone already married.

‘What?’ my brother gasped. ‘Don’t tell me that Mianyang is someone’s mistress?’

Tears began to pour down my sister-in-law’s face as she exclaimed: ‘It’s so dreadfully shameful! Just the thought of Mianyang being someone’s mistress, getting knocked up, and even insisting on keeping the baby!’

‘Girls today are different from your generation,’ I said, trying to console her. ‘There seem to be a lot of girls who end up with married men these days.’

Her cries became more audible: ‘If Mianyang gives birth to an illegitimate child, how will we ever be able to face anyone?’

‘This is all your fault!’ my brother snapped at me. ‘Ever since she was little you would buy her those literary books and you encouraged her to become a writer. Well, look at her now, reduced to someone’s mistress!’

‘I did indeed encourage her to become a writer,’ I replied. ‘But I certainly never encouraged her to be anyone’s mistress!’

He raised his voice. ‘Do you think she would have ever ended up a mistress if she wasn’t a writer?’

His ridiculous logic was getting under my skin and I said: ‘Well, you’re the one who ruined my son by giving him that damn PSP! Ever since then he has been addicted to video games and has never had an ounce of professional drive!’

‘I’d much prefer it if things had been reversed. Wouldn’t it have been great if you gave Mianyang a PSP and I helped foster your son’s literary talent?’

Speechless with anger, my sister-in-law spoke for me. She pointed at my brother’s nose, and yelled: ‘What do you know about literature? You think you would know the first thing about how to foster someone’s literary talent?’

My brother remained silent while my sister-in-law pleaded with me: ‘Please try to talk some sense into Mianyang. She always listens to you.’

I turned to my brother but he was avoiding my gaze. I figured, forget it, no sense in being petty with him. I approached the door to Mianyang’s bedroom and, just as I was about to knock, heard her voice talking on the phone to someone and lowered my hand.

I could hear her saying: ‘I’m not coming out to see you. I need to stay home and rest up for the baby . . . don’t worry, I have no intention of breaking up your family . . . I’m keeping the baby. I’ll raise the baby by myself. You don’t need to have anything to do with us . . . I already told you, I’m not going to see you. I need to stay at home resting to ensure I don’t have a miscarriage . . . I’m tired, I need to focus on what’s best for the baby.’

There was a period of silence, and after a while it seemed like Mianyang had hung up.

I gently knocked on the door and heard Mianyang respond: ‘I’m resting, please do not disturb me.’

‘It’s me,’ I whispered.

‘Uncle?’

‘Yes, can I come in?’

‘Uh.’

I opened the door to see Mianyang sitting up in bed with her phone, staring at me. ‘Did they ask you to come?’

I nodded. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m doing great,’ she said. ‘I’m pregnant.’

‘I heard.’

I wasn’t quite sure what else to say. My sister-in-law asked me to come over to talk some sense into her, but she never explained what exactly that entailed.

I stood there like an idiot for a while before saying: ‘Well, you’d better get some rest.’

‘Uh.’

As I was gently closing the door to her room on my way out, I noticed her flash me a warm smile. Returning to the living room, my sister-in-law anxiously asked:

‘So, what happened?’

‘What do you mean what happened?’

‘Were you able to talk some sense into her?’

‘What exactly did you want me to say to her? It’s not like you gave me any instructions.’

It was only then that we realized how confused the three of us were by the previous argument. We talked it over and agreed that the best course of action would be to persuade Mianyang to get an abortion so we could all move past this as if nothing ever happened. My brother’s temper was out of control; he kept yelling about wanting to go find the bastard that did this and make him pay. I told him that was a secondary matter we could worry about later. Right now the main thing was to persuade Mianyang to get an abortion. My sister-in-law criticized her husband. ‘All he ever does is lose his temper without coming up with anything practical,’ she said. My brother took a deep gulp, swallowing the flurry of curses he wanted to unleash upon his wife. They asked me to try talking to Mianyang again, but I refused. I told them that we should give Mianyang a few days to think things over. Who knows, perhaps she would come around on her own and go to the hospital to have the abortion.

Mianyang remained in bed for the next week, she described it as part of the regime to prevent a miscarriage. My brother and sister-in-law were only allowed into her bedroom to bring her food, but whenever they heard her phone ring, they would scurry over to the door to eavesdrop. A lot of the calls came from that person Mianyang described as her ‘lover’; he seemed to be insisting that she go out to meet him so they could talk things over, because they repeatedly heard her say:

‘I’m not going out; I need to rest up for the safety of the baby.’

There were several occasions in which my brother and sister-in-law tried to cautiously feel out what they could learn about this man, but Mianyang would just say: ‘I’m not telling you anything about him.’

At one point, Mianyang seemed to lose her patience and said, ‘He’s an old man, okay!’

My sister-in-law responded in horror: ‘An old man?’

‘That’s right, I like older men!’ replied Mianyang.

My brother hit himself in the face, yelling: ‘How could you end up in a relationship with an old man?’

‘Well, he’s not as old as you,’ Mianyang replied.

It was sometime after that I received an unexpected call. It was a Sunday afternoon and I was in the middle of lunch when my phone rang. I heard a deep voice on the other end:

‘This is Sun Qiang.’

‘Who?’ My speech wasn’t clear since I had food in my mouth.

The person on the other line said: ‘I think we have a bad connection, I can’t hear you so well.’

I spat the food out of my mouth. ‘Who is this?’

‘This is Sun Qiang.’

‘Sun Qiang from where?’

The self-introduction I heard coming over the other end of the phone left me reeling. He said that Mianyang told him I had some good story ideas for a novel and he was quite interested. He asked when I might have time to meet so he could hear about my story ideas.

‘I’m free anytime,’ I blurted out.

‘How about right now?’ Sun Qiang asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Okay, I’ll text you an address. See you soon.’

After Sun Qiang hung up, I told my wife how impressed I was with Mianyang. After all those years of supporting her dream to be a writer, she was now doing something to repay my kindness. My wife didn’t understand what I was saying so I told her about the call. That’s when my phone buzzed; Sun Qiang texted the address. I got up and headed out the door. I could hear my wife calling out behind me:

‘Hey, you still haven’t finished your lunch!’

I was fifty years old at the time and literature was like a pool of dead water in my heart. Sun Qiang’s phone call was like someone tossing a grenade into that pool, setting off an explosion of waves. As I walked down the street, my legs seemed to regain the nimble gait I had when I was young. I squeezed onto the bus, my body felt like I was twenty all over again. After transferring three times, I arrived at the teahouse Sun Qiang had directed me to, filled with a passion and excitement I hadn’t felt for decades.

Sun Qiang was already there waiting for me in a private room. I went in and introduced myself. He was somewhat overweight and stood up to shake my hand before asking me to have a seat. I sat down and looked at him; his smile appeared forced.

‘Mianyang tells me you were the one who first opened her eyes to literature,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure I can take credit for that,’ I replied. ‘I just helped her with homework essays and gave her some writing tips.’

He nodded but didn’t say anything else. I was waiting for him to ask about my ideas for a novel but after a while his expression seemed to indicate his mind was elsewhere. Finally, I decided to take the initiative and tell him about my thoughts.

‘I’ve actually got ideas for four different novels. The first one is a work of historical fiction set against the Revolution of 1911, the second one is a Sino-Japanese War novel –’

‘How is Mianyang doing?’ he asked.

I paused for a moment before responding, ‘Not so good . . .’

‘What’s wrong?’

I hesitated, not knowing if I should share her situation with him.

‘What’s going on with Mianyang?’ he prodded.

‘She’s pregnant,’ I whispered. The second I blurted that out I regretted it. I hastily added: ‘No one knows about this besides my brother, my sister-in-law, and my wife – not even my son knows. You’re actually only the fifth person to learn about this, please don’t let there be a sixth.’

‘Rest assured, I won’t let there be a sixth.’ His expression became stern. ‘Who’s the father?’

‘None of us know,’ I said. ‘She won’t tell us.’

He heaved a gentle sigh of relief. Taking a sip of tea he suddenly remembered the reason for our meeting and asked: ‘So how many ideas did you say you had?’

‘Four.’

‘And what’s the first one?’

‘It’s a novel about the Revolution of 1911.’

‘Don’t touch that one.’ He waved his hands. ‘That is an important historical event that requires approval from the higher-ups. It’s too much trouble. What’s the second one?’

‘It’s set against the Sino-Japanese War.’

‘Forget that one too.’ Again he waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. ‘That’s a topic that has been overdone. Do you know what the greatest battle of the Sino-Japanese War was?’

‘The 1937 Battle of Shanghai?’

He shook his head.

I tried again: ‘The Battle of Changsha?’

He shook his head again and offered: ‘It took place in Zhejiang at the site of the Hengdian World Studios.’

Seeing the confused look on my face, he explained, ‘The number of Japanese killed in Hengdian surpassed the current population of Japan today. And what’s your third idea?’

‘The third one is centered around a new idea I’ve been playing with these past few years, but I’m still working on it.’ I started to feel a bit uncertain about the project.

‘What genre?’

‘It’s a realist work,’ I said, ‘about forced evictions.’

For the third time, he waved his hands, explaining: ‘Let me tell you, I’ve got more than a dozen drafts of self-criticism reports I’ve been forced to write for books like that in my desk drawer. Whenever one of our books is criticized by the higher-ups, I pick a draft version of the report that best suits the current project, do some light revisions, and submit it.’

‘If it is so dangerous, why do you bother pushing ahead with the book’s publication?’

‘Because those are the books that make money,’ he said. ‘After all, we are a state-owned publishing house. But the state doesn’t give us one cent of subsidies and we are forced to make a profit on our own. So in order to make money we have to take certain risks.’

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘But since I’m not famous, I don’t think anything I write will make you any money.’

He nodded. ‘You can start by writing something that isn’t so controversial.’

‘My fourth idea should be relatively safe.’

‘What’s that one about?’

‘It’s an old-style story.’

‘From what era?’

‘The late Qing, early Republican era.’

‘Does it feature the Chinese Communist Party?’

‘No.’

‘What about the Nationalist Party?’

‘No.’

‘What’s the story about?’

‘The vicissitudes of life.’

‘That’s something you can write.’

I lifted my cup to take a sip of tea, the first sip I had taken since arriving at the teahouse. Just as I was about to go into more detail about my fourth idea, Sun Qiang brought up Mianyang again.

‘So what is she going to do?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘About her pregnancy?’

‘She wants to keep the baby.’

He lowered his voice. ‘That can’t be allowed.’

I looked at him with surprise. He took another sip of tea before looking up and smiling. Speaking slowly, he explained, ‘Mianyang is just starting to build a name for herself in the literary world. If she were to suddenly have a baby it would cause a scandal and the media would eat it up.’

‘We urged her to get an abortion,’ I nodded. ‘My brother, sister-in-law and I all tried to convince her; we told her it would be best to just move past this as if nothing ever happened.’

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘You must convince her to get the abortion.’

‘I’m going to go to her apartment this afternoon to try and persuade her to go to the hospital to have it done.’

Looking at his watch, he picked up his phone from the table and put it in his jacket pocket. He said he had to attend a meeting. As he waved the waitress over for the check, I asked him:

‘So should I go ahead with that traditional story?’

‘Yes, get to it.’

After paying the bill, he got up and reminded me: ‘You’ve got to convince Mianyang to have the abortion so all of this can quietly go away . . . like it never even happened.’

2

I managed to get 50,000 characters of that traditional story of mine down before I got hit with writer’s block. My emotions were all over the place and my ideas were stuck; there was no way for me to move my plot forward. Every time I tried to write more, it turned out to be a fruitless endeavor – I felt like I was trapped in a sealed room with no windows. I had no choice but to seek out Mianyang for help; I asked her to take a look at what I had written and provide some feedback. I was hoping for some constructive criticism that might give me the inspiration I needed. I had to find a new path forward for this rather traditional story. Mianyang took this 50,000-character manuscript that had already gone through such an arduous journey to finally get on paper and handed it over to Sun Qiang. He was sitting beside her, and she asked him to take a look at it first.

By this time, Mianyang and Sun Qiang were married and their son was already eighteen months old. They took a hands-off approach to parenting, letting my brother and sister-in-law raise their child.

My brother and sister-in-law became specialists in powdered milk. They knew all about the various imported powdered milk brands. They said that domestic brands of powdered milk weren’t made by adding a bit of melamine to the milk powder, they instead added a little bit of milk powder to the melamine! That’s why they insisted on not letting their grandchild anywhere near Chinese-made powdered milk. They talked about powdered milk with such a sense of purpose in their voices. They had Mianyang and Sun Qiang’s phone numbers saved in their phones and every week they called to check on their friends’ international travel schedules to find out which countries they might be visiting. Based on that, they devised a careful plan for which brands of international powdered milk to ask their friends to bring back for them. They increased the number of powdered milk purchases based on their grandson’s growing appetite, factoring in a 50 percent error ratio because sometimes Mianyang and Sun Qiang’s friends forgot to buy it while others were simply too lazy to shop for powdered milk while traveling abroad.

According to my sister-in-law, this chunky little toddler had consumed powdered milk from twenty-one different countries. My brother proudly added:

‘Our grandson has been raised on United Nations milk!’

By this time, Mianyang had published her first full-length novel. It got great reviews and sold well. A Sinologist was even translating the book into French. This news made my brother and sister-in-law go crazy. They said that in a few years, bookstores in all the countries from which their grandson drank powdered milk would have Mianyang’s books on display. But my brother told me not to share that comment with anyone else.

‘That’s the kind of thing you can only say behind closed doors,’ he said.

Sun Qiang was cleaned out after his divorce; his ex-wife ended up with his apartment and all the money in his bank account. He made a triumphant escape by moving into Mianyang’s apartment rental. They put on a lavish wedding with more than 200 guests. My brother and sister-in-law sat at the head table alongside Sun Qiang’s superiors from work, his parents and his college-age daughter.

As Mianyang’s uncle, I was quite honored to sit with a famous writer whom I had long admired. As soon as that writer learned that I was Mianyang’s uncle, he pointed to my sister-in-law and said:

‘I actually think Sun Qiang would be better off with Mianyang’s mother.’

I looked over at Sun Qiang and my sister-in-law sitting at the head table, and nodded my head out of respect for this
famous writer.

‘In terms of age, they would indeed be a better match.’

Sun Qiang invited a television host to serve as master of ceremonies. Speaking through a microphone, the master of ceremonies invited the bride and groom up to the stage. Sun Qiang and Mianyang, who was eight months pregnant at the time, ascended the stage amid a flurry of applause and laughter. The master of ceremonies then invited Sun Qiang’s college-student daughter up to the stage to ask her what she thought about her father’s decision to go ‘out with the old and in with the new’. Sun Qiang’s daughter giggled as she took the microphone and said how much she wanted to congratulate her father on behalf of her mother, but her mother refused, so she could only speak for herself. She said that when she was little, she always wanted a little brother to play with. Her father promised to give her a little brother, but he never made good on that promise; until now! Looking down at Mianyang’s bulging stomach, she made her own promise: when her little brother grows up and wants to start dating girls, she’ll help hook him up.

As Sun Qiang’s daughter stepped down from the stage amid a flurry of laughter and applause, my wife knit her brow and whispered to me: ‘How could she say such a thing in public?’

The master of ceremonies addressed Sun Qiang: ‘So how does it feel to be getting remarried?’

‘Getting remarried feels like . . . getting remarried,’ replied Sun Qiang.

‘And what do you think of the ceremony?’ asked the master of ceremonies.

‘I initially didn’t want to hold a ceremony,’ said Sun Qiang. ‘I just wanted to get registered so we could legally sleep together! But Mianyang wasn’t having it, so I had no choice but to throw something together!’

The master of ceremonies turned to Mianyang: ‘What was it that made you insist on having a big wedding?’

Mianyang responded: ‘I couldn’t let people think that he had secretly crawled into bed with me; I had to prove to everyone that he crawled into bed with me in the most upright manner! That’s why we are holding this ceremony!’

Not liking what he just heard, Sun Qiang turned to Mianyang: ‘Hey, it was clearly you that crawled into my bed! How come all of a sudden I’m the one crawling into your bed?’

Mianyang seemed to be growing angry. She grilled Sun Qiang: ‘The first time, the very first time . . . did I go after you, or did you go after me?’

Not to be outdone, Sun Qiang asked Mianyang: ‘Well, let me ask you, who was the one calling me all the time to ask me out?’

At this point, Mianyang really did lose her temper. She said: ‘I asked you out to discuss literature, not because I wanted to have sex with you!’

Unable to bear it anymore, my wife leaned over and whispered: ‘How could such cultured people utter such uncultured things?’

Seeing the bride and groom starting to really go after each other, the master of ceremonies interrupted them: ‘I can tell that the crux of the argument here all comes down to what happens in bed, so let me ask you: The first time you did it, was it in Sun Qiang’s bed or Mianyang’s bed?’

Sun Qiang and Mianyang looked at each other but before they could respond, the master of ceremonies flashed a sinister smile and asked: ‘Or was it in a hotel room?’

Sun Qiang and Mianyang both burst out laughing. The master of ceremonies turned to them: ‘So, I guess it wasn’t that he crawled into her bed or she crawled into his bed, they both crawled into someone else’s bed!’

With that, Sun Qiang and Mianyang seemed to be even, but just two months later, Sun Qiang lost the upper hand. I’m not exactly sure how Mianyang tamed him, but from that point forward, whenever the two of them appeared in public at various social events, Sun Qiang would always follow Mianyang around like her assistant. He would walk behind her with an SLR camera dangling from his neck, smiling sheepishly. Whenever Mianyang talked to other people, Sun Qiang would stand off to one side taking photos; when she engaged in conversation with people over dinner, he would squat down on the ground to get a good angle to snap his photos. Sun Qiang would often run into old acquaintances at these events, but after exchanging a few pleasantries, Mianyang would always cut them off with an annoyed: ‘Sun Qiang!’ He would immediately scurry over to snap another photo of her. Mianyang had a thing for taking photos with celebrities, so whenever Sun Qiang caught sight of someone famous, he would immediately direct Mianyang to them and click the shutter. Other times, he would direct the celebrity over to Mianyang to get his shot. It didn’t really matter what these celebrities were famous for – playing basketball, running marathons, writing, singing, dancing, acting, writing online sex diaries, undergoing a sex change – Sun Qiang was sure to always snap a shot.

More than a month after Sun Qiang was given a copy of my 50,000-character manuscript, Mianyang called me. She said they were at a party, but when it was over, they would swing by my apartment. Sun Qiang wanted to talk to me. There was a lot of background noise on their end. I anxiously asked what Sun Qiang thought of my manuscript, but she had already hung up. My wife was watching a drama on TV and asked who called; I told her it was Mianyang. She and Sun Qiang were coming over to discuss my novel. My wife immediately turned off the TV and began straightening up the room. I stood there frozen, riddled with anxiety, not knowing whether or not Sun Qiang would approve of what I had written. As my wife got the apartment in order, she told me to run out and buy some fruit to serve to our guests. I left the apartment in a daze.

Sun Qiang and Mianyang arrived around 10 p.m. Mianyang came in and sat down beside me; leaning back sideways on the sofa, she said she was utterly exhausted. Sun Qiang sat across from me, his SLR camera still dangling from his neck. He must have still been wearing the camera from the party they just returned from; I knew he had no intention of using it to take any pictures of us. My wife smiled affably as she poured them tea and served them fruit. I realized that the moment had come that would decide whether or not I would be able to continue on with this traditional story I had been writing. I wanted to smile but my face was frozen. Mianyang lazily munched on a banana before declaring she didn’t want anything else; Sun Qiang started with a banana and then began to leisurely eat a bunch of grapes that his wife handed to him.

I could barely sit still. When I saw my wife approaching with a tray of freshly cut watermelon, I was secretly hoping she wouldn’t bring him anything else to eat – I couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say about my novel and more food would only bring more delays. I flashed my wife a look, but misinterpreting what I meant, she handed Sun Qiang a slice of watermelon. Sun Qiang said he was stuffed and placed the slice of watermelon and the uneaten grapes down on the side table before wiping his hands with a napkin. He then removed his lens cap, held up the camera, and said:

‘Mianyang, sit up straight so I can take a picture of you with your uncle.’

Mianyang wrapped her arm around mine and Sun Qiang clicked the shutter. My fifty-two-year-old heart beat like a twenty-year-old. Sun Qiang’s camera was only ever directed at Mianyang and various celebrities, but now it was pointed at her and me. Perhaps there was hope for my old-fashioned story to move forward. That’s when Sun Qiang said to my wife:

‘Auntie, why don’t you come over and join us for a photo too?’

My wife came over and sat down beside me and Sun Qiang snapped another shot. My heart rate reverted back to a fifty-two-year-old; I realized I had been getting my hopes up for nothing.

It was only after Sun Qiang put down his camera that he finally got around to that 50,000-character manuscript. He said that he had carefully read through it twice, but if you counted the sections that he found most fascinating, it would be closer to seven or eight times. As soon as I heard the words ‘found most fascinating’, I could barely believe my ears. However, right after that he added a ‘but’; the ‘but’, as he explained it, referred to the fact that no matter how many times he read it, the entire manuscript felt like it was just an opening section. As soon as I heard that, it was as if I was struck by a sudden revelation. I told Sun Qiang:

‘Those words you just shared are worth more to me than a decade of study! Now I realize why I couldn’t finish it; I had been stuck in the opening. I never realized I hadn’t gotten past the beginning stages of the novel. But if I’m able to move past that section, I’ll be able to continue with the book.’

Sun Qiang flashed me a look of encouragement, saying: ‘That’s right, you need to get past the opening.’

‘Tomorrow, I’ll get past it,’ I replied.

Artwork by Ji Zhou, Maquette 5, 2015